Secret Santa 2019
by aussieokie
Summary: For mickeymckeown on Tumblr. My gift for the 2019 Blacklist Secret Santa. Some Ressler whump for you.


As Ressler sat in the back of Reddington's car, he felt a bit like Luke Skywalker, or everyone else in the entire Star Wars franchise. He had a bad feeling about this. He glanced at the criminal beside him, almost said something, then thought better of it. What was the point? Reddington pulled the strings. He had for years. And Ressler knew he'd do his job and keep this asset safe and go along with whatever plan he had today. Eyes returning to the window, he looked at the city streets, washed clean after a recent heavy rain. Drops still ran down the window.

"Almost there, Raymond," Dembe said from the driver's seat.

Ressler looked ahead, spotting nothing but warehouses. What was it about criminals and clandestine warehouse meetings?

"Don't look so worried, Donald. It's my head they're after, not yours."

Ressler gave a half smile and shook his head. That was exactly what he was worried about. As much as he told himself he hated working with (he refused to say 'for') the criminal, there was no doubt they'd put criminals behind bars who would have gone unnoticed in years gone by.

Dembe drove between two rusted iron gates, obviously pried open for todays proceedings. As they drove by the silent metal warehouse, two SUV's came into view at the rear of the dilapidated building. As Dembe parked, Ressler spotted two men by a rear entrance.

"Come along, Donald, let's get this over with."

As he climbed out of the car, Ressler instinctively placed his hand on his holster as he looked around. It was quiet. A dead, abandoned part of town, testament to a former industrial past long since taken over by technology. He fell in behind Red as the criminal walked calmly into the building. He quickly checked his phone in his pocket. No signal. Of course not.

"Gentlemen! I believe I'm expected?" Red called out.

One of the men nodded, then stepped into the dark interior of the warehouse. Once more, Ressler was on guard. He glanced at Dembe beside him noting he was just as vigilant. It came naturally to both men when around Raymond Reddington.

A tall man met them inside. Embracing Reddington, he stepped back, grinning. "Hola, old friend!"

"Pedro, it's good to see you. How long has it been now?"

"Aaahh, too many years, Raymond, too many years."

Ressler knew a split second before it happened. Hand halfway to his holster, he felt the gun jammed in his spine and his own weapon removed from behind him. Damn it. He had known. KNOWN. His eyes flew to Reddington. And damn it if the man wasn't smiling.

"Pedro," Red said, smiling at the man they'd come to meet. "This is my associate, Frank Sturgeon."

Ressler glared at Reddington. The criminal looked at him, the glint behind his eyes unmistakable, knowing what that name would do to Ressler. Instinctively, Ressler ducked, swirled around, and rammed into the man behind him, knocking him to his feet. A gunshot filled the air, and Ressler almost felt the bullet part his hair. Ressler slammed the guys head into the concrete floor, grabbing his own weapon as the man was knocked out.

In the chaos, Dembe rushed his man, and within seconds, both gunmen were on the ground. Dembe joined Ressler, both now holding their weapons on Pedro. Reddington was laughing. Ressler almost wanted to shoot him instead. But breath heaving, he held Pedro at gunpoint, scowling at Reddington.

"Well, now that the measuring contest is over," Reddington said, motioning for Ressler and Dembe to lower their weapons, "I believe you and I have something to discuss." Pedro smiled and motioned for him to follow.

Ressler refused to drop his weapon. Eyes darting around the warehouse, all seemed quiet, yet his Spidey sense was on full alert. Someone else was here. But as Dembe lowered his gun, Ressler slowly did the same, but did not holster it. As Red and Pedro moved toward the small warehouse office, Ressler and Dembe followed, both on alert.

Ressler hissed at Dembe, "This isn't how it was supposed to go."

Dembe met his eyes. "Perhaps. But we must do as Raymond instructs."

Ressler shook his head in frustration. He did not possess Dembe's blind trust in his master. As Red and Pedro approached the old office, they didn't enter, but instead sat on rickety metal chairs at an old table, where many workers had sat and taken a smoke break in years gone by.

As the men talked in hushed tones, Ressler's eyes moved over the warehouse. They were not alone; of that he was sure. The voices of Red and Pedro were the only sound. Yet still Ressler's ears strained to hear beyond that. And soon, he heard it. Or felt it, he wasn't sure which. Muffled footsteps on the catwalk above. As he raised his eyes, Dembe did the same, and back to back, they held their weapons high, instinctively stepping toward Red and Pedro.

Three men appeared, aiming assault rifles down at them. Ressler hated it when he was right.

Behind them, Red spoke. "Really, Pedro? After all this time? I thought we'd decided to let bygones be bygones."

Pedro ignored Red and spoke to the men above him. "As promised, I bring you Raymond Reddington. I trust this concludes our business?"

As the first of the men reached the warehouse floor, he approached Ressler and Dembe. "Weapons down, or I put a bullet in your bosses' head."

"Donald, if you please. I am rather fond of this head."

Ressler scowled, then held up his weapon, where another masked gunman took it, while the third man removed Dembe's firearm from his hands. For the second time in a few minutes Ressler was held at gunpoint, and it was pissing him off royally.

"In the office. Now!" their leader called out, herding Ressler, Dembe, and Red toward the office in the corner of the warehouse. When Ressler refused to move, he found himself staring down the barrel of the assault rifle. He got the message, and moved after Red.

Red shook his head, looking at Pedro. "I do hope they at least made this worth your while. Paid off that ridiculous yacht at least?"

"I am sorry, my old friend. I trust you understand business is business."

"Oh, I understand."

Ressler didn't, and as they reached the office, he saw his chance. As the leader lowered his weapon while conversing with Pedro, Ressler dropped his head and charged the man. In an instant, he had the gunman sprawled on the ground. Unable to get the rifle free of its strap, Ressler settled for fists instead, pummeling the man's masked face, ignoring the man's hands grasping his wrists.

But Ressler's success was short lived, as two pairs of hands grasped him roughly and threw him aside. Ressler was prevented from regaining his feet by a rifle butt cracking down on his skull, knocking him out cold.

* * *

The floor was cold beneath his cheek, and his head hurt. As Ressler's eyes flickered open, he had no recollection of where he was. Dust motes hung in the air, caught in a beam of light. He closed his eyes against the brightness of the room. But it wasn't a room. It was bigger than that. He lay in an empty warehouse. In an instant it came back to him, and he rolled onto his back. Near him, the chairs at the small table lay askew on the ground. There had been a fight. Pedro had set up Reddington. Where the hell was Red? As he shot up to a sitting position, his vision swam, and he lay back down on the hard floor.

Rolling to his side, he got his knees under him, moving more slowly this time. His head throbbed uncomfortably, and a trickle of blood crusted his hair. As his hand reached for his holster, he already knew it was empty. Slowly he stood, and on unsteady feet, he looked around the warehouse and up onto the catwalk above. Walking toward the office, he leaned against the table, righting one of the chairs. Slumping into it, he caught his breath and took in his situation.

First thing he needed to do was make sure Red was not here. Second, see if any cars were outside. And even though he knew the answer to both of those, he went through the motions, making sure. The office was empty, and as he made his way to the door they'd entered through, he stopped. Unsure if he was going to pass out or throw up, he chose to sit on the floor. Sweating, he shed his suit jacket, dropping it beside him as his stomach settled.

On his feet again, he made it to the exterior of the building, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun. No cars. Of course not. He'd never be that lucky. Leaning on the doorpost, he estimated how far they'd driven that morning. Not too far, from what he remembered. He could walk that. Couldn't he? And so, he stepped out in the full sun, and walked as steadily as he could toward the rusty gates, dodging leftover rain puddles as he went.

It was quiet. A gentle breeze blew against his sweating skin, for which he was thankful. Staying in the shady side of the street as much as he could, he leaned on metal fences, making his way down the long, deserted street. After about 20 minutes, he slid to the concrete in a shaded area, panting heavily. He was ridiculously hot. With an effort, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, willing his vision to clear. Head spinning, he closed his eyes, trying to imagine an ice bath. Anything to feel a bit cooler.

Yet it wasn't that hot. Maybe 50 degrees, and clouds were building again after the morning rain. Once more he wiped the sweat off his face and opened his eyes again. He caught sight of something on his right wrist. An insect bite? Trying to focus, he looked closer at the mark. Not a bite. A tiny hole. Like a needle. Head resting on the fence, he thought back. The gunman he'd fought had grabbed his wrists to stop him. As a wave of nausea rolled through his belly, Ressler realized he'd been injected with something. But he likely hadn't got the full dose. Something told him if his attackers had rings with poisoned needles, they'd likely be a fatal dose.

But how much worse was he likely to get?

Spurred on now, he rose shakily to his feet, grasping the chain link fence with sweaty hands. A breeze blew past him, and he turned his palms to it, feeling the coolness. Whatever he'd received was taking more effect now. Probably because he was being a hero and walking his way out of this, and not laying still like a good poisoned victim.

But he couldn't sit and wait. At the end of the long row of warehouses, he might be able to flag down a car. He walked a few more steps and felt a heavy drop of rain on his forehead. As the drops increased, he stopped again, leaning against another chain link fence as a wave of nausea passed through him. But he welcomed the cold rain on his hot skin and started walking again. Or tried to.

Until now he'd ignored the numbness in his feet, but every step felt as if he was walking on pincushions. And the rain was increasing. No longer welcoming, now it ran in his eyes, smearing the blood from his scalp down the front of his white shirt. As he limped past another building, he changed direction, entering the property through a hole in the fence, taking shelter under an awning.

As he collapsed to the ground, his stomach roiled, and there was no stopping it this time. Head pounding with every retch as he his last meal spilled onto the ground, he finally finished throwing up. His head felt huge. Throbbing with every beat of his heart. Slumped under the awning, listening to the rain pounding on the roof above him, the first inkling of real concern came over him. As he listened to the rain drumming against the metal, it was impossible to keep his eyes open. And unbelievably, he fell asleep.

He awoke with a start as a clap of thunder rolled overhead, letting out a gasp at the pain in his head. His body was on fire, the skin on his forearms visibly pink in the fading afternoon light. As he sat up more, his body felt smaller. Less than himself. As he tried to stand, he understood why. His legs were numb below his knees, and his hands were similarly afflicted. Whatever dose he'd got was creeping up his extremities.

And alarmingly, his heart felt sluggish in his chest. "Damn," he whispered; his voice hidden behind another clap of thunder.

"Think…think…" he told himself, attempting to keep his brain functioning amid the heat radiating off his skin. And the only thing that came to mind was that he was screwed. And that spurred him to clamber to his feet, leaning unsteadily under the awning as the rain poured around him. He was dry where he was at, but still he needed to keep going to reach that road.

He was unsure how much time had passed when he discovered he was no longer walking but was face down on the ground. As the rain poured onto his back, he attempted to rise to his knees. He couldn't feel his knees anymore, nor his arms. Like dead stumps, his hands grasped at the asphalt and weeds beneath his fingers. His head felt like it would explode. He coughed, his breath ragged in his chest.

All he wanted was to lay down and rest, yet he was afraid to stop moving. He felt like crying at the futility of it. And as the rain poured, he lay on the wet ground under it, lit by occasional flashes of lightning.

* * *

He wasn't sure if his hearing was playing tricks on him. It was just the rain. But when hands reached for his shoulders, he realized he _had_ heard a voice. But whose?

"Yo, mister, you okay?"

As Ressler was rolled onto his back, he found himself looking up into a hooded face of a boy of about 16. The rain had eased, and a light fog surrounded the few streetlights in the area, bathing everything in a soft glow that hurt his eyes. When he tried to speak, his tongue wouldn't work. _No, I'm not okay!_ he wanted to yell at the kid.

"You drunk? Stoned?"

More the latter, Ressler thought through his gummed-up brain, trying again to say something. "Poi…" was all he managed.

"Yeah, well, whatever dude. You don't wanna be here when Aces come around."

Aces? Yeah, well, he'd take the kid's word for that. If he could have raised a hand to the kid, he would have, but his limbs felt like lead.

"Need…help," he managed to gasp.

The kid looked down at him, then stood up again indecisively. "I don't know mister. I don't want to stay around here too long."

Ressler would have strangled the kid, if his hands would work. "Ple…" He tried to look down the street, motioning with his eyes. "Main… road."

"You got any money?" the kid asked, interested again.

Ressler just stared at him, pleading with his eyes. Yes, he had money. He'd give the kid whatever he wanted if he'd just get him out of here. "Yes."

"Wait here." The kid took a last look around and ran off.

Ressler almost laughed. What else could he do but wait there? Eyes throbbing in his head, he lay on the ground, soaked to his red-hot skin. Breathing was harder. As if his chest muscles didn't want to keep rising and falling. Which is exactly what was happening, he knew. _Come on kid!_

After what seemed forever, the kid returned, towing what looked like a go cart. "Okay, mister. I can't carry you, but I can get you in here and take you as far as the road, okay?"

Ressler didn't care anymore. While his limbs were numb, he found he could still move them with some effort. With the kids help, he half lay in the go kart. "We gotta move, mister. It's almost dark now."

Ressler was well aware of that. And the fact his chest was tighter now. As the kid pulled the cart, it moved slowly, then picked up a little speed. Maybe they would get to the road after all.

But after a few minutes, the kid stopped. "Oh, shit, dude." He pushed the cart, aimed it toward a darkened building, then ran ahead, towing the cart as fast as he could. "We gotta get in here."

Ressler was able to see what had got the kid so worked up. Headlights coming down the street. "No!" he whispered. It was two vehicles, and they'd spooked the kid. But what if it was Red or Liz, or the task force coming for him? They'd drive right by them in the dark.

"It's Aces, man!"

As the kid pulled him inside a darkened building, Ressler lost sight of the vehicles. The kid crouched beside him, looking through the dirty windows of the warehouse. Ressler's head swam. Every breath hurt his chest, and every slow heartbeat pounded in his head. "F…B…I…" he whispered. "Help…"

"What? You a Fed, dude? Oh man!" The kid shot to his feet, ready to run. "I don't want no heat, man!"

"Help!" Ressler surprised himself with the shout.

"Dude! Hush up!" the kid hissed, leaning down to him. "I'll go take a peak as they go by and see what cars they are." And he was off, darting through the opening in the wall, hunkering down behind an outcrop of the building. Ressler had no choice but to lay there and wait. And try to keep breathing.

When he opened his eyes, the kid was back, shaking his shoulder. "Okay, G-Man, those were Aces cars. They'd have rumbled you and left you for dead, for sure." Ressler would have told the kid he was dying anyway, if he could.

"But after Aces left, I hid for a bit, then I saw more cars. I went and looked at 'em, and those were Federali cars! Government plates and all." He was pleased with himself. "I came back here to tell you."

Ressler's heart leapt as best it could in his tight chest. "Call…tell…" _Tell them I'm here for God's sake, kid!_

"You want me to see if I can stop them when they come back? Maybe?"

Ressler could have hugged the kid. "Yes."

"But if Aces show up again… oh, man, they after my butt."

_I'll be after your damn butt if you don't move, kid! _"Go…" Ressler managed.

"You got it, man. You know what? I ain't never met a real live Fed before."

_If you don't hurry, you'll be seeing a real dead Fed._

"Okay, you stay put, mister, and I'll go get them other Feds." He stopped, then looked back. "And you got money, right?"

Ressler closed his eyes in reply as he heard the kid run off into the darkness.

* * *

Once more, Ressler didn't know how long he'd been alone when he opened his eyes. Even that was getting difficult to do. His body was cocooning him inside it, burning him to a crisp as it did so. Sweat ran in his eyes, stinging them. A flash of light caught his attention outside. A voice. It was hard to take a breath. His chest could barely move.

"I got him in here, before Aces showed up. Kept him safe and all that."

"That's great, just show me where my partner is and we can help him," came the reply.

_Liz! _Ressler wanted to weep.

"He's in here, ma'am." The kid's voice was right outside.

And in seconds people stood around him. Liz was at his side, her hand on his brow. "Ressler!" She looked up at Aram and Cooper. "It looks like the same stuff Red got in him!"

Aram leaned down. "Agent Ressler, I have a shot to give you here. It's the antidote. The people who injected Mr Reddington…"

"Aram! Just give it to him!" Cooper ordered. Ressler looked up at his boss, lit in their flashlight beams. So Red got a dose of it too. He could barely feel Aram moving his shirt sleeve up his arm and placing a needle to his upper arm.

"Here, right?" Aram looked up at Liz, who nodded frantically.

"Do it!" Liz was still at his side, her hand on his chest now as she looked at Ressler again. "Come on, Ress. We've got you!"

Ressler didn't even feel the needle enter in his arm. He couldn't breathe. As he struggled for the next breath, his heart was too slow. Far too slow in his chest. The flashlights faded from view. Hands were on his chest, starting compressions. Somewhere he heard Liz crying his name. Aram was begging him not to die. And the last thing he was aware of as he fell unconscious was that he didn't even know the kid's name.

* * *

The following morning, Ressler opened his eyes. Reddington sat there, looking tired. When Ressler opened his mouth to speak, he was relieved to find his mouth worked again. And so did his body. He was hurting like a son of a bitch, and still a little feverish, but much better than he last remembered. He looked around to find himself in a hospital room.

"Welcome back, Donald."

"What happened?"

"Well, we can go into that later. Suffice to say, you're okay, I'm okay, and Pedro is no more. That'll teach the bastard to double cross me."

"What did they do to us?"

"A slow acting paralytic. If either one of us had received a full dose, we wouldn't be sitting here. So, thank you for being such a good boy scout, and taking half the dose for me."

Ressler returned his gaze to the ceiling. "You're welcome. I think."

Red chuckled, then rose from his chair as Liz came in, carrying coffee. "You're awake," she said, and sat in the chair Reddington had vacated.

"Yeah, and ready to get out of here," Ressler said, then sat up. But that was too soon. He lay back in the bed with a groan.

"Not so soon, Donald. I got the antidote before I felt too many ill effects. Your dose did far more to you. Just take it easy for a couple of days, then you can go out chasing bad guys again."

Ressler nodded, glad that his head no longer felt like mush, and settled in. "I can do that." In fact, he could barely keep his eyes open. But then he remembered something.

"Hey, what was the kid's name?"

"Armando. Insisted we call him Mando," Liz chuckled. "And you owe me $50. He also insisted you'd told him you'd pay him."

Ressler laughed at that. "I did, and he earned every penny."

* * *

Two days later, Ressler drove back down the street, trying to ascertain which warehouse he'd been at when Mando had found him. It looked different in the daylight, but finally he found the right one, by the tire marks and footprints in the mud. He stepped out of the vehicle and spied the opening in the wall of the warehouse. As he walked toward it, a head poked out.

"Yo, dude! You lookin' better!"

Ressler smiled at the young man, finally getting a good look at him. The hood was down, revealing a wiry youth with jet black hair and olive skin. "Thank you."

"You don't need to pay me. That lady FBI agent, she paid me." He kicked the stones around his feet. "But I don't feel right takin' all her money. You give this back to her, okay, Fed?" He handed Ressler two $20s and a $10.

Ressler looked at the bills, then up at the kid. "You live around here?"

"In that warehouse over there, the old faded red one," Mando said, pointing to one further back from the road.

Ressler eyed the dilapidated building. No kid should have to live out here. "Look, I want to help you, like you helped me. If you'll come with me, I know a guy who runs a youth hostel. He'd be able to set you up with a room and board."

Mando looked at him, then back to his warehouse. "I don't know, man…"

"Oh, it's not a free ride. You'd have to earn your room each week, helping out at the hostel while you got back on your feet."

"You mean it?"

"I do." Ressler handed him back the $50. He'd already paid Liz back. "And you earned this. You keep this, and put it toward getting set up at the hostel, okay?"

Mando looked at the money Ressler handed back to him. "Thanks man. You okay, for a Fed."

As Ressler walked to the red warehouse with the kid, picking up what few belongings he had, he spied the old go cart. Funny how things work out. He had needed help and had found it in the most unlikely of places. And now he was paying it forward.


End file.
